Conversations
by Shmegegi
Summary: Party banter between Afanen Surana and her companions.
1. Wynne, Origins

**Chapter I: Wynne, _Origins_  
**

* * *

"I recall a young apprentice telling me, not very long ago, that she would like to see the entire Circle Tower burned to the ground," Wynne remarks. "I am relieved to see that you weren't serious."

Afanen scowls. "Hmph. I _was_ serious."

"Oh, you _were_ serious?" Wynne chuckles. "Pardon me, but I think you are starting to show signs of maturity, my dear," she teases.

"I could _still_ be serious, if you like," Afanen replies sullenly, hunching her shoulders. "I'll end the rebellion and burn down the tower. Let's see the Grand Cleric come up with _another_ place to corral the mages."

Wynne sighs. "I think the next time I see a glimpse of maturity, I will keep it to myself. It seems to last longer that way."

* * *

"I should thank you," Wynne says quietly. "I know the decision you made in the Circle Tower was not an easy one. Nevertheless, I am grateful for your intervention. I…I don't know what would have happened otherwise."

Afanen scowls. "The templars would've slaughtered everything in their path and burned the tower to the ground."

"Oh, I suppose you're right. Greagoir is a good man, but he is still the Knight-Commander and bound by everything that means."

"He's still a _templar_," Afanen retorts hotly. "There were mage _victims_ in the Harrowing Chamber, prisoners of Uldred, and there were _children_ cowering in fear. But he doesn't care. _He_ thinks we're all just like Uldred, all arrogant and weak and using a demon's spine in place of our own. _Uldred_ was weak, and I'm not _him_. That bastard's painting us all with the same brush, and I don't like it."

Wynne watches her quietly for a moment. "This isn't about Greagoir anymore, is it?"

Afanen doesn't answer.

* * *

Wynne lifts her chin. "The templars are not zealots and executioners. They are men and women, and they have an unenviable and thankless job."

"What are you talking about?" Afanen retorts. "_You're_ privileged."

"I _earned_ these privileges," Wynne replies coolly. "And I have not forgotten what it is like to be a young, vulnerable apprentice. The templars were intimidating, and I have not forgotten the rights they have over us. But underneath their armor, they are all human."

"Humans with power over elves _never_ turns out badly." Afanen hunches her shoulders. "What makes you so entitled to preach on the _humanity_ of templars?"

Wynne falls quiet, her gaze becoming sad and thoughtful.

Afanen stares at her. "You slept with a templar, didn't you?"

Wynne swallows, and her tone becomes stiff. "It was a long time ago."

* * *

"So…this templar…" Afanen shifts uncomfortably. "He didn't…you know…"

"Force himself on me?" Wynne finishes. She chuckles. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. But thank you for your concern."

Afanen blushes. "Right. And there were no consequences?"

Wynne sighs. "There were…unexpected circumstances. You heard me tell Alistair about my son, yes? His father never claimed him. And I hold no ill against him for that. If his commanding officer had learned he'd fathered a child with a mage…a lot of things would be different."

* * *

Wynne smiles. "You look like you want to ask me something."

"_No_. Maybe." Afanen hesitates, looking doubtful. "You slept with a _templar_," she finally says incredulously. "Why?"

"He was a good man and, ah, not bad to look at. Had a marvelous physique, as I recall."

Afanen squirms. "Ugh. I don't need to think about the sex appeal of a templar, thank you."

"I should remind you that you asked." Wynne raises an eyebrow. "Why are you so interested in this topic?"

"No reason."

"Oh? This does not have anything to do with the young templar at the Circle Tower, then?"

Afanen blanches, and her posture stiffens. After a tense moment of silence, she mutters, "I don't want to talk about it."

* * *

Wynne looks thoughtfully at Afanen. "There is no shame in attraction to a templar."

"Thank you for that. I wasn't really sure before," Afanen replies dryly.

"Your sarcasm is not lost on me, young lady," Wynne admonishes. "You have talked so much about your distrust of templars, yet you travel with Alistair, who trained as a templar, and Sten, whose people treat their mages far worse than any templar."

"Alistair is a Grey Warden, and Sten won't cut my tongue out."

"You've given them chances to prove themselves, but why do you not give the templars the same? You're angry because Cullen blames all mages for the actions of a few, but how is your bias any better?"

Afanen flushes. "It's…it's different."

"Pardon me, then." Wynne's tone is insincere. "My mistake."

* * *

"You're right," Afanen mumbles. "I've been thinking about what you said and…you're right."

"I am?" Wynne's eyebrows raise. "Such a thing has never happened before. You must be mistaken."

"Oh, _ha ha_. Very funny." Afanen sighs and rubs the back of her neck. "I knew Ser Cullen was infatuated with me. He was rather obvious about it. I always thought Greagoir deliberately chose him to preside over my Harrowing because of it. But I…well…I'm not good with feelings." She fidgets. "He's all _emotional_, and I'm not. It never would've worked out."

"But it still hurt when he condemned you," Wynne says quietly.

Afanen chuckles. "I'm a Grey Warden. And Zevran…is something. It shouldn't've hurt." She hooks her thumbs into her belt. "Maybe I should go back, after the Blight. We'll…talk. Or something. You know?"

Wynne smiles warmly. "I think he would like that."


	2. Alistair, Origins

**Chapter II: Alistair, _Origins_**

* * *

"So!" Alistair begins rather cheerfully. He falters a little bit when Afanen looks at him. "You're…uh…a mage. From the Circle Tower."

Afanen raises an eyebrow. "I am. What's it to you?"

"Well, I, uh…" Alistair hesitates and rubs the back of his neck. "You know I'm a templar, and, uh…Maker, this is awkward. It sounded better in my head."

Afanen frowns at him and squares her shoulders. "I'm not scared of you."

Alistair laughs weakly. "No, but I think I might be a little scared of you. Right. Let's, um, move on."

* * *

"Well!" Afanen clears her throat uncomfortably. "The weather is…lovely, don't you think? Yes. Very…lovely."

Alistair stares vacantly into the distance. "Mmhm."

Afanen shifts her weight. "Look, I'm sorry. About Duncan, I mean. He seemed like…like a good man."

"He _was_ a good man," Alistair snaps. Then he sighs heavily and his shoulders sag. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I just keep thinking I could've _done_ something. And I keep wondering why Flemeth bothered with us."

Afanen shrugs. "Who knows why Flemeth does anything? Regardless, we're here. We're alive. We'll make Loghain's treachery known. Duncan's death won't be in vain."

"Loghain should _hang_ for what he did," Alistair mutters. In a softer tone, he adds, "But it still won't bring Duncan back."

* * *

"I didn't know mages and templars could be friends inside the tower," Alistair remarks.

"We're _not_ friends," Afanen retorts.

"What? You and me? Perish the thought!" Alistair makes a dismissive gesture. "I was talking about that templar, Ser Cullen."

Afanen ducks her head. "So was I."

* * *

Alistair hooks his thumbs in his belt and kicks at the ground. "So you weren't _friends_. Did he know that? Because he seemed to be under the impression that you—"

"Shut up! Will you shut up?" Afanen snarls.

Alistair flinches and holds his hands up defensively. "All right, all right! I'll just…be over here. Not talking. Maker's _breath_."

* * *

Afanen rubs the back of her neck. "All right. I guess I…owe you an apology," she mutters.

"Owe me an apology?" Alistair repeats, his eyebrows raised. "I can't _imagine_ what for. Do tell."

"For my, um, _attitude_." Afanen shifts uncomfortably. "Look, you don't know what it was like in the Circle Tower. You know, on a normal day. Without the abominations and blood mages. There's a _reason_ those bastards attempted to rebel."

Alistair shakes his head. "No, I don't know. And I thank the Maker every day for that. I'd've made a terrible templar."

Afanen laughs and after a moment, she sobers again. "Right. So. Sorry."

Alistair grins. "Apology accepted. Does this mean we get to be _friends_ now? Share our darkest secrets with each other? Do each other's hair, paint our toenails?"

"Ugh." Afanen groans. "I'm going to regret this."

* * *

"So, I noticed that you and that assassin have become quite…comfortable around each other." Alistair frowns and crosses his arms over his breastplate. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, he tried to _kill us_."

"Leliana is a former bard, and Sten slaughtered an entire family," Afanen replies. "You never complained about either of them."

"Yes, well, they never tried to kill _us_. And you aren't sleeping with them." Alistair pauses. "You aren't, a-are you?"

"No, I'm not. I mean, Leliana is always welcome into our bed, but she hasn't gone for it. And qunari don't seem to have sex for fun. Or maybe Sten is a virgin and ashamed of it? I don't know."

"Right. Of course," Alistair mutters.

Afanen grins wickedly. "Alistair, are you _jealous_?"

"What? _No_, I'm _not_," Alistair retorts in a huff and lets the subject drop.

* * *

Alistair hooks his thumbs into his belt. "So…"

Afanen blushes. "Don't."

Alistair grins. "_Fanny_, is it?"

"To some people. You know, the ones who wouldn't mind being _burned alive_," Afanen retorts. She raises her hand and conjures a ball of fiery magic, as if to prove her point.

"Uh-uh. You don't scare me anymore. And I rather like the nickname: _Fanny_." Alistair chuckles. "I think it fits you."

Afanen dismisses the magic and reconsiders her rebuttal. "About as much as _Prince Alistair_ fits you, I think."

"What? No!" Alistair gasps. "Maker's _breath_, don't call me that."

"Is that what His Majesty commands?"

"Ye—_no._ It's what _Alistair_ _the Grey Warden_ commands. I—I mean _wants_!" Alistair groans and covers his face.

Afanen chuckles. "Glad we came to an understanding."

* * *

"Well, your sister is…" Afanen struggles for a moment, then sighs and rubs the back of her head. "Your sister is a bitch."

"I don't know_." _Alistair shrugs, as best he can in plate armor. "If I had _five children_, I'd be kind of cranky, too."

Afanen laughs. "I don't think Grey Wardens have to worry about ever having _five_ children. You'd be lucky to ever have _one_."

"I suppose that's true." Alistair averts his gaze, looking doubtful.

"Don't waste your thoughts on her," Afanen tells him. "You're surrounded by people who care and love you—"

"Plus Morrigan."

"Plus Morrigan." Afanen grins. "You know, the mundanes out here always say they can't choose their family. I learned in the tower that I _can_ choose my family, and that's exactly what I did. Blood isn't all that important, is it?"

"No, I guess not." Alistair is quiet. "'Choose my family…' Does this mean I've been friend-zoned?"

* * *

"You know, part of me is relieved that I won't be king." Alistair hesitates. "But I guess the rest of me is sort of…sad? I don't know."

"Are you having second thoughts?" Afanen asks. "Because the Landsmeet is over. Queen Anora will stay on the throne."

"And she's a better politician than I ever could be. I mean that as both an insult and a compliment," Alistair mutters. "Yet, I keep thinking about all the things I would do differently if _I_ were king."

"I think you'd make a great king. You'd be that sort of roguish king who sneaks out at night to meet with commoners." Afanen laughs at the thought. "But I think Queen Anora is better suited for the dangerous lifestyle of politics. And I don't think you would be very happy as king. Not in the long-term."

"I'm a Grey Warden." Alistair shrugs. "There is no long-term."

"Your reign would be short and sweet, manipulated by Arl Eamon's traditionalist values. You would be matched to a noble woman in a political marriage and expected to have a child with her. You would spend every year petitioning the Landsmeet, attempting to improve lives, while those nobles spar with each other over rights to land and coin. After a year, I think you'd hate it." Afanen pauses. "The Grey Wardens are _free_. Sort of. All we have to do is kill darkspawn."

Alistair regards her thoughtfully. "You make being a Grey Warden sound so _appealing _in comparison. But I suppose you're right." He grins. "Thanks…Fanny."


	3. Morrigan, Origins

**Chapter III: Morrigan, _Origins_**

* * *

Morrigan stares balefully at Afanen. "It must bring you such comfort, to leave the sanctuary of your remote tower and find yourself in the company of yet another templar."

"Does it comfort you the same? _You're_ in the company of the same templar," Afanen replies stiffly.

Morrigan makes a dismissive gesture. "I am in the company of a dim-witted, superstitious fool. I've no fears that he could _actually_ threaten me. 'Tis my understanding that the mages of the tower cling to their templar-guardians, allowing themselves to be herded like cattle and prostrating themselves before their own would-be executioners."

"Well, you're right about the prostrating bit." Afanen grins. "Although it usually happens without pants, and templars aren't always involved."

* * *

"So what was it like?" Afanen asks. "To live outside the tower?"

"Intrigued by the life of an apostate, are you?" Morrigan chuckles mirthlessly. "What could I tell you? I have little knowledge of life within the tower, and thus very little to compare my life to. And life with Flemeth is…unique, perhaps, even amongst apostates. I _will_ tell you that I was never taught to fear my magic."

"In the tower, we have to attend the Revered Mother's sermons every week," Afanen explains. "They use the Chant of Light to brow-beat us, and they tell us our magic is a stain on our soul, a punishment for our _sins_. We spend our childhood training for the Harrowing. Templars watch us, preparing for the inevitable, and they kill us if we fail."

Morrigan scowls. "'Tis ridiculous the mages condone that sort of treatment. Why would anyone willingly submit to the Circle of Magi, when it is nothing more than a long and drawn out execution?"

Afanen smiles weakly. "_Your_ mother hid you from the templars. Ours didn't."

* * *

"I don't understand." Morrigan fixes Afanen with a curious stare. "That templar was obviously infatuated with you. He presented you with an opportunity to survive within the tower, did he not?"

"What are you talking about?" Afanen raises an eyebrow. "You mean…_use_ Ser Cullen?"

Morrigan nods. "'Twould not take much to get that hopeless fool under your influence. Even maddened in a cage, he was desperate to believe _you_ are different. Why give up the chance to ensure your own survival when he is nearly throwing himself at your feet?"

"You may have noticed that I'm not on the best terms with the templars. They don't like it when you smuggle a blood mage out of the tower." Afanen grins sheepishly. "Not even Ser Cullen could do anything about that."

"That was a _recent_ development, and you have known this man for several years."

Afanen doesn't answer.

* * *

Morrigan fixes Afanen with an even stare. "You claim my mother _protected_ me from the templars. 'Twas not as though she hid me in the cellar and pleaded with the templars to leave our remote hut. She taught me how to face and kill the templars, how to defend myself against their abilities."

Afanen raises an eyebrow. "Is there a reason you're bringing this up?"

"_Protected_ sounds so passive and weak. Flemeth taught me to be strong," Morrigan explains. "If your mages cannot escape the tower, they _deserve_ to be there."

"Or they don't _want_ to leave." Afanen scowls. "Did Flemeth teach you what mundanes do to mage-children? Or adults? Because we both know that mundanes are _so_ understanding when it comes to magic. And a life outside the tower—giving up our magic and pretending to be mundane—is _such_ an enticing lifestyle."

Morrigan snorts derisively. "Getting defensive, are we?"

"No, Morrigan, I'm just…" Afanen sighs. "You talk as if you still have to explain yourself, but there are _so many_ mages that would've _loved_ to have an apostate-mother to shelter them and nourish their talent. Your experiences are a far cry from being locked in a wardrobe for two days."

Morrigan's expression softens, just a little. "I…see."

* * *

Afanen sighs. "All right, I take it back."

Morrigan raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"What I said about your mother. Mundanes are stupid and superstitious, but they're not capable of _possessing bodies_ or turning into massive dragons."

"Yet they are still stupid and superstitious, as you said," Morrigan counters. "Flemeth's plan has failed, due to her own teachings. She taught me survival, at all costs." She frowns. "Perhaps I learned too well, or perhaps she foresaw my reaction. Whatever the situation may be, 'twould not be the case if Flemeth were mundane. A great many things would be different."

Afanen regards her curiously. "You know, you're taking this 'my-mother-tried-to-possess-me' thing very well. I don't know whether to be impressed or worried."

"How _should_ I react? Should I weep over the remains of my broken heart? Should I withdraw into seclusion and grieve over her betrayal?" Morrigan asks. "Flemeth is dead, for now. Her grimoire is mine to study and keep. That is all that matters."

* * *

"Does this make sense to you?" Afanen asks. "I mean, what _language_ is this written in?"

"Flemeth wrote in a unique cypher," Morrigan explains. "Even I do not understand the tome's entire contents. I have had to draw on what Flemeth taught me to decipher what she never intended for anyone else."

"So Flemeth is multilingual _and_ invented her own cypher." Afanen sighs irritably. "Of _course_ she did."

Morrigan chuckles. "It is not easy to keep secrets as long as she has."

"Oh, and you think it's _funny_." Afanen scowls. "I take back every complaint about the First Enchanter's assignments. At least the books he assigned to me were _usually _in the King's Tongue."

Morrigan smiles, her yellow eyes bright. "You can always return the grimoire if this is too difficult for you."

"Uh-uh. This is too _useful_," Afanen replies stubbornly. "I'm not letting a _cypher _beat me."

* * *

"Are you sure this…dalliance with the assassin is a wise decision?" Morrigan asks.

"What?" Afanen grins. "You've never slept with a man who tried to kill you?"

"Not the point." Morrigan makes a dismissive gesture. "Surely you are suspicious of his motives? He stands to gain much through your favor, whether it is protection or an opportunity to finish the job."

Afanen frowns at her. "Why are you bringing this up?" A slow smile creeps across her expression. "Are you _jealous_? Because I would _love_ to take you to bed. Except, you know, I don't do anything involving animals."

"No, that's not—" Morrigan stops speaking abruptly. "What? No. _No._"

"Are you sure? You've been so helpful with Flemeth's grimoire, and we've been spending so much time together…"

"You are serious." Morrigan's tone is flat.

Afanen's grin widens. "You wouldn't be the first woman I've taken to bed, Morrigan."

Morrigan sighs irritably. "Very well. Avoid the question."

* * *

"I have a question for you," Afanen remarks.

"This is not another proposition to bed me, I hope," Morrigan replies warily.

"I suppose that's my answer, then? Damn." Afanen sighs in mock disappointment. "Anyway, what will you do after the Blight?"

Morrigan frowns at her. "And where, pray tell, did this question come from?"

"Zevran and I were talking the other night, and he asked me what I would do with him after the Blight is ended," Afanen explains. "Well, assuming that I survive the Blight. It made me curious: I killed your mother, the hut is sitting in disrepair. What will you do after the Blight?"

Morrigan averts her gaze. "Such thoughts are…are nothing more than idle fancy. We must focus on the Blight, first and foremost."

"You are more than welcome to keep traveling with us," Afanen offers. "I can always use a friend."

Morrigan is silent for a long time. "I see," she finally says quietly. "'Tis something to consider, at least."


	4. Leliana, Origins

**Chapter IV: Leliana, _Origins_**

* * *

Leliana catches Afanen's gaze and smiles faintly. "Tell me something: do you believe in the Maker?"

Afanen sighs irritably. "I _knew_ I was going to regret this," she mutters. She presses her lips into a pursed, thoughtful line. "Why do you want to know?"

"After the Exalted March of the Dales, the elves that came to live in the cities agreed to give up the worship of their Creators and accept the Maker into their lives," Leliana explains. "But I confess, I have never spoken with an elven mage before. I know many mages, such as Aldenon the Wise, are not believers. I am curious what _you_ believe in."

"The Chantry has been _so_ warm and inviting since I was taken to the tower, but I _like_ being unreasonable and bitter," Afanen replies dryly.

Leliana raises a slender eyebrow. "You are having me on."

"I should introduce you to the Revered Mother while we're at the tower." Afanen sighs wistfully. "Such a lovely woman, she is."

* * *

"The Revered Mother did not truly say you are _unreasonable_ and _bitter_, did she?" Leliana asks, her tone concerned.

Afanen grins. "In her defense, there were templars around."

Leliana looks at her, visibly appalled. "That…that is a terrible thing to say to someone. Andraste did not inspire Her followers by insulting them."

"_You_ might think it's terrible, but _I_ think of it as Tuesday." Afanen shrugs half-heartedly. "After twelve years of, _'You are the Maker's curse, repent and be forgiven for having the audacity of being born,'_ I think _bitter_ is rather mild. It's also about as accurate of an observation as Her Reverence ever made. Too bad that didn't happen more often."

* * *

"You have such interesting hair." Leliana's blue eyes sweep over Afanen's hairline. "There is something elegant about the way your hair is clipped, even with the sides shaved so close to your scalp. But you must be so cold!"

Afanen shrugs. "I dunno. Ferelden is always cold; you get used to it."

"I have never seen another Fereldan woman with that style of hair-cut. Where did you get the idea for it?"

Afanen grins, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I meant to shave it all off, but my arm got tired before I could finish."

* * *

"This must be hard for you," Leliana remarks quietly. "To return home and find it in the throes of a rebellion."

"The rebellion is over." Afanen's tone is flat. "The templars can rest easily, knowing that no more mages are left to challenge them."

Leliana inclines her head thoughtfully. "You are unhappy with the outcome? There are mages who survived the rebellion. Your mentor amongst them, if I am not mistaken."

Afanen snorts derisively. "The loyalist mages are safe in their beds, with templars shadowing their every step, and the libertarians are dead and decaying. I am _thrilled_ with the outcome. No, really."

Leliana flinches at her tone. "I…I see."

* * *

Afanen hunches her shoulders, looking rather sullen. "So. Leliana. I, um…I'm sorry."

Leliana inclines her head. "Sorry? For what?"

Afanen averts her gaze. "Earlier. About the rebellion. My _tone_."

Leliana chuckles. "There is nothing to forgive. I was not offended." She sobers and appears thoughtful. "In Val Royeaux, the wealthy districts are illuminated by glowstones, the color of sapphires. They are maintained by the apprentices of the Circle, under the supervision of the templars. One morning, I witnessed the apprentices and the templars tend to the glowstones in the districts. The apprentices were not quite adults, but…" She frowns. "They looked miserable, like prisoners. I will never forget how they dragged their feet, or how the templars glared at them."

Afanen scowls. "Apprentices rarely get to leave the tower. Only the _privileged_ are let out. Those apprentices you saw? They were probably the most complacent, boot-licking apprentices in the tower, otherwise, they stay locked away like the rest of us."

* * *

"You were the First Enchanter's apprentice, were you not?" Leliana asks.

Afanen nods. "Yeah. What of it?"

"Apprenticed to such an important man, you must have enjoyed some privileges of your own," Leliana replies.

Afanen scoffs. "Like what? Front row seats at the weekly sermon?"

Leliana gives her a wry smile. "Perhaps a recommendation to the Commander of the Grey? A chance to experience freedom as a Grey Warden?"

Afanen flushes. "I…uh…"

Leliana's smile widens. "Perhaps you were more privileged than you think."

* * *

Afanen scowls. "I wasn't _privileged_."

Leliana's eyebrows raise. "What is this about?"

"Privileges. And the tower," Afanen reminds her. "I was still _just_ an apprentice; it didn't matter who I was apprenticed _to_." She hunches her shoulders. "And you don't know what it's like, being trapped in a tower for years, forbidden to even _go outside_."

Leliana shakes her head. "No, I do not. And I could not imagine what that life would be like. I was free to roam the streets in Orlais, free to wander the countryside of Lothering. To be trapped within a tall tower, like a prison, it sounds like a terrible life." She smiles. "But it does not sound as though your life was _completely_ terrible. You had a mentor who loved you as a daughter, enough to give you to the Grey Wardens. The boy from Redcliffe—Jowan?—it was clear that he loved you, as well. Even removed from society and guarded by the templars, you were not alone."

Afanen hesitates. "I…guess that's one way of looking at it."

* * *

"I…have noticed something about you, if you do not mind my saying," Leliana remarks thoughtfully.

"You _noticed_ something about me?" Afanen grins. "You know I don't like it when people notice me. I take _great_ offense at your statement."

Leliana chuckles. "Ah, it is the topic that I worried might offend you. But I am curious. You are…" She pauses, her expression thoughtful. "You are _touchy_ about the young templar from the tower. He meant a great deal to you, yes?"

Afanen's grin vanishes. "I…don't know what you're talking about."

"And Zevran. He means a great deal to you as well," Leliana continues.

Afanen rubs the back of her neck and blushes. "Not in the way _you're_ thinking of. He's a companion. With benefits."

"Are you so afraid of affection?"

"Look, mages don't _fall in love_. We have _sex_. Sometimes. Briefly. In the corner, before the templars catch us. There are no _relationships_ in the tower."

"I don't believe you," Leliana replies gently. "I think you and Zevran are opening your hearts to each other, in your own way."

* * *

"So you were a bard." Afanen lifts her chin. "You seduced and murdered a lot of people."

Leliana nods, stone-faced. "I did."

"And you…what was it you said? Found the _ideal woman_ of your targets and _became her_. Then they died."

"Yes. On countless occasions."

Afanen suddenly grins rather mischievously. "Who is _my_ ideal woman?"

Leliana shoots her a startled glance. "Pardon?"

"My ideal woman," Afanen repeats. "Who is she?"

Leliana chuckles. "For a moment, I thought you might be having…doubts, after all that Marjolaine said." She falls quiet for a moment. "Your ideal woman…is a free spirit. Worldly. Open-minded and curious. She enjoys casual intimacy, but, sometimes, she likes to cuddle. This woman is dangerous and capable of holding her own. Dangerous, wild, and sexy. That is your woman."

Afanen's grin widens. "Ooh. You're _good_."

* * *

Afanen stares at the ground. "I don't know what I believe in."

Leliana raises an eyebrow. "That was directed at me, yes?"

"After we met in Lothering, you asked about my beliefs. I never gave you an answer." Afanen chews the inside of her cheek for a moment. "I have seen the Black City. From a distance. A couple times."

"You have doubts," Leliana finishes. "Regardless of your beliefs, the Maker has love for all His children."

"Even the Chantry claims the Maker turned away from us."

"Sometimes, we must distant ourselves from those we love. No matter how much it pains us. But it does not mean that we stopped loving them."

Afanen _hm__m_s under her breath and falls silent.


	5. Sten, Origins

**Chapter V: Sten, _Origins_**

* * *

Not for the first time since their meeting, Afanen catches Sten staring disapprovingly at her. "What is it?" she asks warily.

"You are a mage." Sten's tone is flat.

Afanen stiffens. "I am. What of it?"

"At first, I thought the Grey Wardens showed _some_ intelligence in your pairing," Sten explains. "Now I realize your handler is incompetent."

"My…?" Afanen's surprise fades in the wake of anger. She scowls. "Alistair is _not_ my handler. And I don't _need_ a handler. I'm capable of controlling myself on my own."

Sten holds her glare. "That remains to be seen."

* * *

Afanen eyes Sten warily. "Is it true about the Qunari mages? That you sew their lips shut and force them to wear a collar?"

Sten holds her gaze. "_I_ do no such thing."

"But it's true."

"It is."

* * *

"So the Qunari collar their mages and sew their eyes shut," Afanen remarks thinly. "Why not just kill them? Why keep them alive at all?"

Sten squares his shoulders. "Why didn't the templars kill you? Or the rest of the mages, for that matter?"

Afanen scowls. "Because magic has a purpose."

"Magic _can_ be useful, but it is dangerous. As are many things in this world." Sten stares at her unabashedly. "Existence is a choice."

"So is putting on a collar." Afanen sighs. "I'll never understand how anyone could submit to that."

"It is the way things are," Sten replies.

* * *

Afanen catches Sten's gaze. "The Qunari have no templars and no Circle. Where do the mages study?"

Sten sighs. "Of what use would that answer be to you?"

"Well, you know." Afanen rubs the back of her neck. "There's not a _lot_ of information on the Qunari. I'm curious."

"_Parshaara._ There is no point. A _bas_ would not be allowed to study amongst the _saarebas_. You must submit to the Qun, first."

Afanen chuckles. "I don't think I'd enjoy _that_ kind of submission."

* * *

Sten frowns. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh, relax. I'm not going to set you on fire or anything." Afanen waves a hand dismissively. "I was just thinking…do the Qunari have sex?"

"How else would we procreate?" Sten asks dryly. "Do you think we spawn into existence from nowhere or that we emerge from holes in the ground?"

Afanen chuckles. "When you put it that way, you make the Qunari sound like harmless critters."

* * *

Sten looks approvingly at Afanen. "That was unexpected of you."

Afanen raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"The elf. Putting him to use."

"You approve?" Afanen grins. "I'm surprised."

Sten's expression hardens. "The Qunari waste nothing."

* * *

"Are the Qunari prudish?" Afanen asks.

Sten glances at her, his expression unamused. "About what?"

"Sex. The Qunari are all about _devotion to the Qun_ and the _demands of the Qun_," Afanen explains. "And marriage is typically an important aspect to the more…uh, _devout_ people."

"Marriage?" Sten frowns. "This is the ceremony where a man and woman bind themselves to each other for a lifetime, then spend that lifetime feeling disappointed with their chosen partner and seeking affairs with other people."

Afanen's eyebrows raise. "Uh. Yes. That's the one."

Sten shakes his head. "The Qunari have no such things. The tamassrans partner us together to procreate. Afterwards, we return to our role."

"So…you sleep together once, with the full intention of having a child, and then…" Afanen frowns. "The priests raise your children, don't they?"

"You are learning," Sten replies with a hint of approval.

* * *

"You fight too much on the frontline," Sten admonishes roughly.

"I was _ambushed_," Afanen defends. "Had to defend myself against that genlock. Bloody little bastards, always getting underfoot."

Sten holds her gaze. "You stand too near the frontline in battle, kadan. You should be in the back, with the other mages."

"Ugh. I think it's…that phylactery. In the Brecilian Forest." Afanen frowns. "Those memories are messing with mine. Sometimes, I feel like…"

"But you are not." Sten waves his massive hand dismissively. "Excuses. Stand in the back, kadan. False memories will not protect you from the blades of the darkspawn."

"Maybe not." Afanen grins. "But you gotta admit—that last defense, with the genlock. I _was_ pretty swift."

"Swift enough to challenge an _imekari_, perhaps," Sten counters with a wry smile. "You leave your left side open when you swing your staff."

"I do?" Afanen glances down at herself. "Oh. Thanks. I'll keep an eye on that next time."


	6. Oghren, Origins

**Oghren, _Origins_**

* * *

"Don't touch that," Oghren grumbles. "Touch raw lyrium, and you'll bleed from your eyeballs. This isn't like that watered-down piss you have on the surface."

Afanen snaps her hand back to her side. "I know that," she replies, somewhat flushed. "I knew the dwarves shared little of their lyrium supplies, but this is...more than I expected. It's _impressive_."

"What're you goin' sparkly-eyed for? We're not down here so you can fondle the lyrium."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten about the darkspawn." Afanen pauses and grins wickedly. "Although they would be _perfect_ for testing out the effects of a lyrium potion made with this stuff."

Oghren scowls and shakes his head. "You'll blow the whole sodding cavern in. _Hmph_. If I knew where I was goin' be today, I'd've drunk more."

"I find that hard to believe."

Oghren snickers. "Eh. You're right. I would've drunk more anyway."

* * *

"So, eh, is it true what they say about mages?" Oghren asks.

"Probably not," Afanen replies dryly. "What are we talking about here?"

Oghren grins, red-faced. "That mages are _friskier_ than a Noble Hunter in the Diamond Quarter."

"Oh! That one." Afanen's eyebrows raise. "Actually, no, that one is true."

Oghren's tone is almost disbelieving. "What? Really?"

"No, really." Afanen grins. "The bunk beds are primarily decoration at this point, I think."

* * *

"The dwarves have a close relationship with Tevinter, don't they?" Afanen asks.

Oghren shrugs, as best he can in full plate armor. "Probably."

"You don't know?"

"One of those _magisters_ came down to Orzammar a few years back," Oghren explains. "Wanted to meet Branka, talk about mining and lyrium for some research of his. He was a nervous little prick, using a lot of big _fancy_ words, turning his nose up at my ale."

Afanen looks at him curiously. "What was this magister researching?"

"Who knows? He wasn't about to explain it to _me_."

"Ah. Good point. So what happened to the magister?"

"I dunno. Think he was killed and eaten by the darkspawn. Can't say I miss the squirming little blighter."

"Ooh." Afanen chuckles mirthlessly. "Ironic."

* * *

Oghren glances curiously at Afanen. "So…what is that belt-thing you mages wear?"

"'Belt-thing'?" Afanen repeats, amused.

"Yeah, that…metal…plate…_thing_ dangling from your belt," Oghren explains slowly. "What is the point of that?"

"You mean the belt on the Circle robes," Afanen realizes. "Ah, it's…like a chastity belt. But not really. Maybe the templars thought an image of _sacred flames_ would deter our sexual deviancy. You know, that it would _kill the mood_."

"Huh. Seems like it wouldn't take much more to turn it into an _actual_ chastity belt. Those things are so…" Oghren struggles wordlessly for a moment. "_Big_."

"They seem bigger when they're on you. But don't worry," Afanen adds with a lecherous smile, "we found ways around it."

* * *

Oghren eyes Afanen rather suggestively. "Eh, you're a little thin for my tastes, but sodding mad. I'd take you."

Afanen returns a similar glance. "I've always had a weakness for men with muscles and calloused hands." She grins. "Ah, but the matted beard with all the food in it—I mean, the _beard_ is nice, but it looks terrible."

Oghren sniggers. "So no kissing, then?"

Afanen's grin turns lecherous. "Not my _face_, anyway."

* * *

Afanen smiles. "So how are you coping with life on the surface?"

Oghren grunts. "It's taking some getting used to. S'long as I keep my eyes on the ground, it's not so bad. Easier to deal with at night."

"Hm." Afanen nods thoughtfully. "Because the night sky is kind of like a cavern, right? In the Deep Roads, I saw blue lyrium in the caverns. Some of it glittered like stars. And the walls were darker with the taint, almost black. It was beautiful and creepy."

"Eh." Oghren pauses and lets out a low and toxic _buuuuurp!_ He licks his lips and chuckles. "Well, actually, it's because I'm good and drunk by nightfall."

* * *

"So, eh, what d'you see in that perverted pipe-cleaner?" Oghren casts a wary glance at Afanen. "Does he even _like_ girls?"

"We're talking about Zevran, are we?" Afanen guesses. "Of course he likes girls. _Women_. Whatever. Why? Feeling a little jealous, that he turns his affections from you to me so easily?"

Oghren lets out a sharp laugh. "Ha! He can _keep_ his affections. Don't like those _longing glances_ he keeps throwin' me at camp."

Afanen chuckles. "I'll tell him you said so. Now why bring this up?"

Oghren scowls. "How does a stalagmite sucker like him land a woman? Wouldn't that be...y'know, a waste of your time?"

"Zevran does more than _suck stalagmites_, Oghren." Afanen leers at him. "He has an interest in licking moss and pert pebbles, too."

* * *

"The attitude towards the Blight is different in Orzammar," Afanen remarks.

"Yep. All the humans up here are scurrying around like nugs with their heads cut off," Oghren replies with a surveying glance. "With all the dwarves on the surface, you think the humans would've known. Somehow."

"Suppose we had it coming." Afanen shrugs and offers a wry smile. "Anyway, so you've probably heard the old fable the Chantry preaches about the First Blight, right?"

"Something about mages and darkspawn falling from the sky."

"Yeah. What do the dwarves say?"

Oghren shrugs, as best he can in full plate armor. "The darkspawn came from below us. And that's as far as we've gotten."

"Really?" Afanen raises an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"You may have noticed that we're still fighting a _war_," Oghren says pointedly. "It's not like the 'spawn are holding a conference to answer our questions."

"Ooh." Afanen laughs. "Good point."

* * *

Afanen squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. "All right."

Oghren raises an eyebrow. "'All right,' what?"

"I want to try some," Afanen declares. "That...that ale that you're always carrying. I want some."

Oghren's suspicion turns into glee. "Come to try Oghren's finest brew, huh? Heh heh, all right. Gimme a second." He retrieves a flask and holds it out to her. "There you go. Tell me what you think."

Afanen eyes the flask suspiciously, then uncorks it. She sniffs warily and swallows a small mouthful. "Mm." She smacks her lips and drinks another mouthful. "It's...good. Really good. Smooth and warm. Kind of nutty."

Oghren laughs. "Ha! Knew ya'd like it! You know," he adds in a pleased tone, "I'll have more at camp."

Afanen grins. "I'll _definitely_ have more at camp."

* * *

"Ancestor's sagging tits, Warden. Aren't Grey Wardens supposed to made of harder stuff than this?" Oghren laughs. "You went down after one measly half-pint."

"Ooh. Ow. Don't...don't laugh so loud," Afanen mumbles weakly. "It hurts too much."

"Can't say I'm surprised, though." Oghren casts her a disapproving glance. "Must be something about elves, you're all light-weights. Probably because you're all so _light_."

"Elves drink plenty in the Alienage and the tower," Afanen defends feebly. "Just...nothing made by a dwarf. Bloody _void_."

Oghren shakes his head. "Hmph. I've kicked dust-nugs made of sterner stuff than you. I'd water it down for you, but that'd just ruin the taste. Tell you what, I'll serve you out of a kiddie cup 'til your tolerance builds up."

"Ah, such manners. So polite." Afanen chuckles. "Thank you."


	7. Dog, Origins

**Chapter VII: Dog, _Origins_**

* * *

"I've thought of a name for you," Afanen announces.

The mabari hound cocks its head to the side inquisitively.

"Aldenon. What do you think?"

The mabari gives a gruff, quiet sort of bark, then a happier and louder one.

"Approval! Good!" Afanen grins. "Do you know who Aldenon the Wise was?"

The mabari sits on his hind-quarters and looks at her expectantly.

"Aldenon the Wise was once Calenhad the Great's adviser," Afanen explains. "He was an apostate from the Frostbacks and a disbeliever in the Maker. He helped Calenhad unite the teyrnirs into a single country, but they had a falling out after Calenhad went behind his back to enlist the aid of the templars and the mages during their struggle. Aldenon despised the Circle of Magi and the Chantry. He told Calenhad, 'Tyrants always fall, and the downtrodden always strive for freedom,' and he left."

The mabari hound whimpers sadly.

"No one knows what became of Aldenon the Wise, but it is said that Calenhad was searching for Aldenon when he disappeared. Maybe they were united." Afanen shrugs. "Anyway, Aldenon was a brave and good man. I will always love his tale."

* * *

Afanen looks unhappily at the mabari hound. "You got dog fur all over my bedroll," she accuses.

The mabari hound whimpers and hangs his head, tucking his tail between his legs.

Afanen stares at him for a moment longer, then sighs. "All right, all right. I forgive you." She chuckles. "How can I stay mad at such a pretty puppy?"

The mabari hound barks happily and bounces around her in a circle.

* * *

"Aldenon! You've been rolling around in the dirt again, haven't you?" Afanen accuses without heat. "You've grass in your fur."

The mabari hound barks and wags his stumpy tail unabashedly.

"You really didn't like the Circle Tower, did you?"

The mabari hound whimpers and hangs his head.

"I don't blame you." Afanen rubs the back of her neck. "I would definitely take miles of cold dirt over the stone walls of the tower."

The mabari hound gives an enthusiastic—and oddly agreeable—bark.

* * *

"Is it normal for dogs to have such an enormous appetite?" Afanen wonders aloud. "And to be so energetic? And to _kick_ so much in their sleep?"

The mabari hound barks happily.

Afanen frowns at him.

The mabari hound whines plaintively.

"I have seen your jaws around so many darkspawn, and not _once_ have you fallen ill," Afanen tells him. "Did those flowers do anything at all? Or did you survive the taint on your own?"

The mabari hound barks happily and lowers himself to his front paws.

"You want more food?" Afanen guesses. "You don't actually care at all about darkspawn and taint, do you?"

The mabari hound gives an oddly conversational bark, something that sounds like an explanation.

Afanen chuckles. "_Fine_, fine. Let me see what I have in my pack for you."

* * *

"All right, Aldenon," Afanen begins sternly. "We have to have a talk, you and I."

The mabari hound gives a confused whine, pressing his ears against his skull.

"There is only so much room in my tent and—"

The mabari hound interrupts with several short barks.

Afanen squares her shoulders. "And I gave him a _second chance_. Zevran has done nothing to me so far—well, nothing I didn't _like_—and I trust him—"

The mabari hound interrupts once again, barking sharply and growling.

"But—"

The mabari hound growls again.

Afanen sighs and slumps her shoulders. "What am I going to do with you? One day, you'll have to learn that he's not _attacking_ me. It's _wanted_."

The mabari hound lets out a distinct huff.


End file.
